


Galactic Peace Never Solved Anything

by AstroGirl



Category: Farscape
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-06
Updated: 2009-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after the happy ending?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galactic Peace Never Solved Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Crichton Angst-a-Thon.

It's a little after noon when the Luxan shows up at my door, but, this being one of the bad days, I've already been drinking for at least an arn.

One of the bad days? Frell, who am I kidding? They're all bad days any more, or at least when there are good days, they stand out as weird statistical aberrations. All I need is a cowboy hat, a pickup truck, maybe a dead dog, and I'm an instant country song.

When I was a kid, my mother used to read me fairy tales. The usual stuff: evil stepmothers, enchanted castles, princes and princesses makin' goo-goo eyes at the royal ball. Like all little kids, I liked to ask questions. Once, at the end of the story, I asked her: what happened next?

"They got married," she said, "and they all lived happily ever after."

"And what happened _then_?"

"Son," she said, and patted me on the shoulder, "There are some questions it's better not to ask." At the time, I think I was kind of pissed at her. Now... Oh, mom, I wish life worked like that. I wish we could just stop at "happily ever after," and not ask what happened next.

I wish my son had lived long enough to ask me stupid questions.

The Luxan's waited patiently at the door for me to finish reliving my childhood memory, which I guess is a good sign. It probably means he's not here to kill me. Not that I know why some Luxan I've never met might want to kill me, but there's always a reason. Even in happily-ever-after time, I'm still John Crichton.

"Are you John Crichton?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. See? Still me. For whatever the frell it's worth.

He reaches for something behind his back, and when he pulls out the qualta blade, for a microt I think, shit, he _is_ here to kill me, and I honestly don't know whether to feel scared or relieved or just glad Aeryn's not home to see it.

But he holds it out like he's performing some kind of ceremony, and suddenly I know in my gut what it means.

_Jesus Christ._ It never stops.

"Jothee wanted you to have this." He doesn't look happy about it, maybe because I'm not a Luxan, or maybe just because Jothee shaped up to be a good guy and a damned good soldier, and there's nothing about this to look happy about.

"No, he didn't," I say softly. "He wanted Chiana to have it." But Chiana's gone, vanished, dead, who knows. She was smart. Smart enough not to hang around. "But in her absence... I'm honored."

It's the right response, apparently, because the Luxan gives me this dignified warrior-nod, like he's honored by my honor, and hands me the qualta blade.

I'm not prepared for the way the memories hit me when I hold the thing. D'Argo. Oh, frell, Heavy D. I still miss you, man. I miss your "look what the stupid human's done now" laugh, and I miss your angry face, and I miss the way you always knew what to say to me when I got too full of self-pity and needed a sympathetic ear and a good, swift kick in the pants.

For a moment I can see him, clear as life, holding this weapon like it's an extension of his arm, that mad grin on his face, showing the bad guys who their daddy is. For a moment, it's almost like he's here with me again.

But he's not. D'Argo's dead. D'Argo's dead, and his namesake is dead, and his son is dead, and what the _hell_ did we fight for, D, if it's not to save our children?

"How..." My throat's dry, despite the raslak, and I have to swallow and start again. "How did it happen?"

"We were fighting in aid of the rebels on Mezana." For a microt, I start to ask where that is, but what difference does it make? It's just one of the thousand worlds were the violence kept right on going long after one John Crichton supposedly saved the galaxy. They never tell you that in the fairy tales, either: you can slay the dragon, but it just leaves the villagers to be lunch for the wolves. Or to catch the Black Death. Or to die of incurable genetic abnormalities when they're six frelling months old.

"We were defending non-combatant women and children in an underground shelter. The enemy breached the outer defenses and were about to come pouring in on us. They outnumbered us badly, and would have killed us all." He looks angry about that. Guess I don't blame him. "The only thing to do was to seal off the entrance until our reinforcements could arrive. Jothee set the explosives. He didn't make it out before they went off. It was an honorable death."

"Yeah," I say quietly. "There are worse ways to die." The Luxan nods, and he's clearly thinking that I'm thinking about Jothee's honorable death, but I'm not. I'm thinking that an explosion sounds like a good way to go. It's quick. It's big. Big and solid and real... and weirdly pretty. I've seen enough of them to know. Caused enough of them. They're beautiful, in a way. Light and fire and noise. Ending with a bang. The alternate ending to happily-ever-after: the hero died to save us all. Why the hell didn't I go for that one instead?

"We dug it out of the rubble," says the Luxan. He pauses apologetically. "I'm afraid it got a little singed."

I laugh. I still do that, these days, just usually not at things that are actually funny. "That's cool," I say. "It's all right. Gives it... character."

He nods and looks uncomfortable. I wonder what he came here expecting? To swap stories with his comrade's dad's old war buddy? That we'd cry on each other's shoulders? Maybe he's expecting me to make a speech. I consider it for a moment, but I just can't manage another eulogy. Not when I'm living one every day.

"Thanks," I say, and he takes it for what it is: a "thanks, and I really do mean it, but I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone to wallow in my misery now" thanks. He doesn't say anything as he leaves.

I stand there for a long while, holding the blade in my hands. It feels cold. Cold, and lifeless, and sharp. Very, very sharp. I close my hand around it, watch the blood drip like water from a leaky faucet. Like my life slowly dripping away, drop by drop in a bizarre kind of reverse Chinese torture.

Eventually, I bandage up my hand. I clean the blood up off the floor. I hang the blade on the wall where it belongs, next to Winona. My beloved, always-faithful Winona, who I never touch any more. Not unlike the other woman in my life.

And I go back to drinking. Because, really, what else is there to do?

Happily Ever Fucking After.


End file.
